Dream a Little Dream of Me
by JustOpposed Silbi
Summary: [ONESHOT] A rekindling of an old flame, a new approach to the old story. Sometimes you just can't stop dreaming.


**Authoress' Note:** Never forget disclaimers, guys. They never fail to chase me with a chainsaw and rid me ever-so-happily of this world I ever dare to un-mention their presence, so consider this piece is disclaimed with blabbering as follows: The characters used in this piece are owned solely by the original author, who in this case is J. M. Barrie, and are used resolutely only for fun; no profit is made by this piece (of crap). Many parts of this story are based on my analysis, so no offense if this story's a bit... _deviated_. Yet, I never mean to deviate the original brilliance of Mr. Barrie; I am a fan of this story since I was seven or so – I just love spin-off, that's all. Hope you enjoy your reading.

**x**

_- A Peter Pan fan fiction -_

**Dream a Little Dream of Me**

**By Silbi**

"Good night, Wendy-Lady."

"Good night, Peter."

And so, once again he was gone from her room, departing from her windowsill so easily by planting the tips of his toes before floating up to the north, second star to the right... did she remember it correctly? She was getting far too ignorant, far too mature to care, though she appraised herself for realizing that she was indeed _too_ mature to remember where her infinite childishness had grown and gone; a place once known as Neverland.

It was Neverland, for it was never there.

But then again, if it wasn't actually _there_, how could she fly up through and down the clouds and through the jungle, how could she set her foot on the solid ground where her unforgettable adventure had taken place – her kidnapped brothers, the Indian princess Tiger Lily, the vain Captain James Hook and the equally vain (but stupid) Smee; and her journey back on a ship flown by fairy dust? They had been so real that it had her dreaming of them almost every single night since the day she made it back to her neglected room where her mother had been waiting restlessly.

Wendy sighed and rested her head on her pillow, faintly reminded that she had been dreaming of Neverland and her escapades for almost eight years, now that she was twenty.

The girl, now a woman, had blossomed into a gorgeous flower in full bloom – she was soon the center of the bachelor-in-town's attention – and as she grew up many had offered courtship, many flirted with her at the parties she attended, many more had paid visits to her house; and they weren't momentary. They were repetitious, as if they were doing it only to get one accepted in random; nevertheless, Wendy had pulled herself away from such things. Though she had matured, her body leaner and her lips fuller and her hair longer, the fieriness of a child in her still burned alive; the yearning of having yet another adventure – maybe even a place to conquer – within her demanded to be released. She was just tired of the posh life in which she had been forced to live, and the fact that the smell of the jungle she had walked through in her dream seemed more real made the nagging displeasure stay.

Him coming to her every night wasn't helping any, either.

Peter Pan had never shown any indications that he was going to forget his promise of visiting her every night, or sometimes every other night; he was always there, his shadow slipping into view, before he pushed at her (always) unlocked window to make his entrance.

She wasn't going to lock the window soon enough, she thought.

She probably wasn't going to forever.

x

"Wendy-Lady," a familiar voice, the boyish tint still impenetrable, called at her. She found herself face to face yet again with Pan, the admirable young man whose courage had won him against Captain Hook, the pirate whose hand had been cut off and be fed to the crocodile. Everyone knew about him, from the perilous mermaids to the usually ignorant fairies; even now in the present, children of his age, who found his story peculiar yet attractive enough to lull them into peaceful slumber filled with adventurous dreams.

The latter, the infamous Peter Pan hadn't known.

He hadn't known that his remarkable experiences had been typed out thousands of times and printed in many forms of nighttime story books and novels, had been acted and spread worldwide and never lose its magic.

The girl, who was now a woman, kept her mouth shut, smiled, and welcomed him into her warm, dimly lit room, waiting for another tale to be poured fervently on her in that childish arrogance way of his.

"Welcome back, Peter."

And as usual, he would start a wide grin and reply eagerly, "I've got a new tale for you, Wendy-Lady."

x

Having him visiting her so many times – the visit, she noticed, that was less and less in frequency though never ceased to take place – she began to acknowledge the change in him. No, not his eyes, for they were always the same alluring honey brown; but once she stood to welcome him that night she realized that somehow he was growing taller and fuller in shape. Now as she stood before him, her shoulders seemed to shrink compared to his, and she had yet to compromise that she now had to tilt her face upwards just to see him right in the eye.

This astounded her, for she was a fully grown woman, and he was a boy that would never grow up.

She dared not to ask, though her halt that night had caught his unwavering attention as well.

He physically never grew up, he had told her, but his wits and his brilliance had preceded his appearance, and he talked _almost_ like gentlemen did with her; Wendy hadn't known how or where he picked up the fashion. Still he had the childish way of talking and joking, and still the boy called her "Wendy-Lady"; and it comforted her that he hadn't actually grown up as far as she had presumed.

"'Twas me, or do you happen to shrink, Wendy-Lady?"

x

The red-haired woman squinted, and was now fully convinced that what she saw over his lips was actually a thin line of hair.

"Wendy-Lady?"

"_Oh –_" she gasped, feeling like she had just been caught red-handed eyeing him from the corners of her eyes, "...yes, Peter?"

"Do you find my story tiring?"

Wendy hastily straightened her slumped way of sitting, her eyes wide open, "No, not at all; the parties are."

It was Peter's turn to squint, but for him, it's in question. "Parties?"

She wasn't sure if she had to answer him. The parties, she overheard, were meant for her to find a spouse. Wendy didn't like them, and somehow, a part of her wanted him not only to know, but also not to like them as well.

The girl regained her composure and answered with collected fashion. "Yes, parties, I had to entertain thousands of guests every time one is held – which is a tiring job, you know, worse than crossing swords with pirates." She smiled at him. He laughed at her wit, and faintly, she saw a swell just across his throat that surfaced as he laughed, and quickly acknowledged that it was indeed an Adam's apple.

The sign of maturity, the first sign of puberty, on a boy that would never grow up.

Wendy tore her eyes off his body, and tried to focus on the story he was telling; of an endless adventure set on a never-island where mermaids and Indians, if there were any of them, secreted.

She closed her eyes reflexively, as if stung, at her own thought. If there was a thing she would never give up, it was her belief; she would not give in to her pressing logic of well-educated brain that never cease to suggest Neverland was never there. The girl knew better, so she resumed her place as the good listener, nod and laugh at perfect times, and bid him goodbye when the first streak of dawn marred the sky as he had to leave.

As she closed the window behind her, she faintly wondered when the gap in her heart would be shut tight.

x

That night was her twenty-second birthday. Lying fully clothed on her bed, she almost passed out in her party gown and high-heeled pumps, if it wasn't for the creaking of windows being opened; yet she barely cracked open a tired eye. She simply laid there on her side, waiting for whatever to come up, feeling like sleeping beauty of some sort as she never slept in such a pretty, glittery gown and high heels, hair still up in a bun though some strands had escaped and framed her pink-tinted face. The girl heard footsteps, and she remained motionless. The footsteps were nearing – God, she could've cared _less_...

Warmth.

In form of exhales, just over her sleeping face.

_Blink, blink._

Her eyes fluttered open – greeted by a boyish face, just over hers.

A kiss, instead of a thimble like her mind had suggested, was placed on her lips.

As quick as it had come, it disappeared, leaving her bewildered though not bothered – only the sound of her hammering heart and the rustles of curtains, whipped by the wintry wind going through the windows that were left open.

Another set of footsteps neared, and her door swung open to reveal her worried mother's face. The gorgeous lady, the beauty never withered by her age, was always anxious at open windows, for they reminded her of the children she almost lost and thought she would never have back; so she walked in briskly and firmly closed the window as if to scare away her fear, before she asked her daughter softly, "Haven't slept, Wendy?"

Seeing her daughter staring at nowhere, eyes open wide and lips parted, the motherly figure in her pushed her to sit next to her daughter and touch the porcelain-like, twenty-two year old daughter's face to comfort her. "Hush now. At least change your clothes first, your father won't like his present got rumpled, will he?"

The mother got up and quietly went back to her husband in their room.

The red-haired beauty took off her shoes, set them next to her bed, and did as her mother had suggested.

x

Time passed, hours, days, weeks passed by, and it was already three months since her twenty-second birthday. Wendy wondered what the kiss had meant, had thought hard about it and still had no clue, other than the one she thought was _preposterous_; that Peter Pan had just confessed his feelings, if there were any, to her, and meant it as a gift. She wondered if he had known that...

"Good night, Wendy-Lady."

Her thought was wiped off completely as soon as the greeting was heard, and the girl whirled back almost too hastily to meet the voice's owner.

Peter Pan was back, proving that he was not only courageous in his adventures but also in speaking his heart out, which not many possessed; he stepped closer and kissed her knuckles softly, but immediately froze as his lips met something other than her long fingers, but also a cold metal band around one of them. He raised his head and saw, there, curling elegantly round her ring finger was a golden ring with glinting diamonds.

x

To Wendy's utmost disbelief _and_ delight, Peter kept coming back, though. He came by every end of the weeks, and more frequent as it was nearing her wedding day, that it felt so sinful to her meeting another guy more often than the one she was going to be wed to. She was disappointed that she agreed to her parent's demand of marrying a bachelor in town too easily, the one with the name of J. M. Barrie (whom she actually hadn't known too well). Words were spread and invitations had been sent, so it was too late to step back. She was raised as a lady too well to know that running away wasn't a perfect choice both for her and her family; her father would lose the name and the titles he had been working day and night to gain in a night, and she would be cursed forever as the one who caused all that shame.

Wendy counted down to the day her vows would be exchanged in agitation, but every time she was nursed by the visit Peter insisted on paying her, and the thought of her marriage got carried away in a rush.

x

The lady had lost him for two weeks after her wedding night that felt like two agonizing centuries; she had waited for him to peek through the windows once more, seeking for her to tell about unthinkable tales of his greatest adventures, blaming herself repeatedly for accepting the proposal in the first place, though she knew it wasn't the matter.

She went on in her married life just fine, she was an exquisite lady, a loving wife, the well-known Mrs. Barrie – a cloak, a mask she had put over her other self longing for a long-lost mate in the two weeks she had gone past. Wendy was taken care of handsomely, and at her request, she and her husband would stay at her parent's house for some weeks. Her parents hadn't asked, thank goodness, for if they had she wouldn't have just the answer.

The woman, sometimes a girl at heart – waiting for someone on the windowsill restlessly, often checking under her bed or into her desk drawers in search of fairy dust remnants – mourned over a loss she hadn't noticed she experienced, and for once, the fact that she was grown up and mature couldn't help. She began to ask herself whether it was wise for her to abandon her childhood, thus the haunting dreams of her daring past came back in full force, seeming more real every night and leaving her clueless of what was happening in reality and what wasn't; though the golden band on her ring finger often be the reminder that she wasn't twelve anymore, ripping her just in time out of the setting her consciousness was replaying in her dark-tinted dreams – the moment she vowed to her parents that she was ready to become an adult.

In those unbearable moments, Wendy would wake up drenched in cold sweat and feeling hollow, and no matter how hard she clutched to her husband in bed or to herself in loneliness she found she couldn't seem to remedy it by herself.

It _wasn't_ her husband that she needed, her conscience painfully admitted.

x

"Wendy Darling," he whispered to the woman sleeping peacefully cheek-to-chest beside him, his fingers combing the unruly red locks gently as if afraid that his dearest wife would break if he laid a finger too hard on her.

"Mmm... wasn't it _Wendy-Lady_ before? ..." she mumbled in her sleep with a small smile on his chest.

To him, she was mystifying in a sense. Somehow Barrie felt that she had been hiding something from him, and often had he asked yet gaining the same response that it had been nothing, nothing to be worried about, and the most frequent, a smile that locked all the secrets behind her, showing that she had been determined to keep the skeletons in her closet. Though so, her smile alone was enough to assure him that there was in fact nothing in particular.

And, when he heard his mystifying wife whispered the nickname he hadn't ever heard of so smoothly that it was uncannily familiar, the writer found himself wondering aloud, the call rolling off his tongue tentatively – "Wendy-_Lady_?"

Wendy Darling, who was now officially Wendy Barrie, chuckled lightly and replied in a tone no more than a whisper, "Mmhm... you forget it already, _Peter_? You start to act like a _grown-up_..."

If his beautiful bride in his arms had muttered anything else, he wouldn't have heard; for the peculiar name had resounded in his head, bouncing and piercing into his skull, tangling with unanswerable questions he had yet to ask his wife.

x

That morning, Wendy Moira Darling woke up feeling totally spirited (and was guiltily reminded that it was because the dream that had visited her earlier, how it had made her day) that she decided to pamper herself in bath milk, feeling that she should look prettier today and put on some make up to greet her husband...

The red-haired beauty lowered the brush from her half-combed hair in mild repugnance of the reflection staring back at her, the realization hit her hard on the face.

She wasn't _anymore_ Wendy Moira Darling!

She was officially, lawfully, Wendy Moira Barrie, the bride of a wealthy writer. How could she forget? It had been only a couple of days, and the fact didn't seem to fix itself hard enough in her memories. She stole a glance to her right hand, and was greeted by the golden reflection of herself from the wedding ring.

Wendy balled her fists until her knuckles whitened, and quickly finished her task of brushing her hair to finish yet another task of serving a meal for both her and her lawful husband.

"Good morning, Darling." Wendy greeted her husband, sitting on the kitchen table drinking a cup of tea and reading newspaper, lightly; though that morning there was a tiniest bit of uncertainty in her voice that pulled her voice tight. She quickly went to the kitchen to cook breakfast for two, took an apron and tied it around her.

"Good morning to you, Wendy-Lady."

She chuckled. But then she froze.

Lips trembling, she raised her gaze to meet her husband's in disbelief, and was met by a cold, betrayed stare that told her he wanted the truth right there, right then.

The lady untied her apron and walked across the kitchen to sit opposite him. Didn't know how to begin and what to begin with, she opted to start with a fact, just like every other fairy tale would. Barrie paid attention closely when she took a deep breath and started her tale, the talent his wife had wielded since a long-forgotten time.

"_It began eleven years ago, when I was only twelve, when I met Peter Pan – the boy that would never grow up..."_

x

Life was hard.

Her heart wasn't.

x

It was two hours later when she went away to calm her heart and mind, leaving her husband sitting on the kitchen table in privacy he himself had asked for, silent and perplexed to the core.

It was truly hard to digest – the fact that his own wife had been seeing someone else behind him, and what was more, he had stolen a kiss from her, the boy who would never grow up – but then the courageous tale of him, the endless rivalry between him and Hook, the leadership in him in keeping The Lost Boys safe and sound had made him spare a tad of respect for Peter Pan.

His heart was in turmoil, and his love in his wife was now being questioned; but his mind shuffled and shuffled, before he decided that it was his time to tell the tale, so he hastily stood from his seat and strode to his room, in rush searching for a paper and a pen to help him weave the first line of the story that would be, some years from now, a legend.

x

Exactly fifteen days and fourteen nights, on the fifteenth night of her marriage, her husband told her that he'd be going to another city on duty. She bid him goodbye and sat back on her bed, staring longingly outside not for her husband but for the man of her life.

She didn't know when, but Peter Pan had become a man right before her eyes.

That night, on the fifteenth night of her marriage, Peter Pan came back into her life bringing more bewilderment she thought she'd never encountered anymore, retracing the pattern he had long since created, of visiting her every other night in excuse of telling her the stories of his life that was a journey of an eternity.

Though she was so baffled that she was dumb-struck for a moment, Wendy welcomed him back into her room through the open window that let in gusts of wintry air, feeling that for the first time in her life, never had she felt so whole.

x

"Wendy-Lady," a familiar voice, the boyish tint still impenetrable, called at her. She found herself face to face yet again with Pan, the admirable young man whose courage had won him against Captain Hook, the pirate whose hand had been cut off and be fed to the crocodile. Everyone knew about him, from the perilous mermaids to the usually ignorant fairies; even now in the present, children of his age, who found his story peculiar yet attractive enough to lull them into peaceful slumber filled with adventurous dreams.

The latter, the infamous Peter Pan hadn't known.

He hadn't known that his remarkable experiences had been typed out thousands of times and printed in many forms of nighttime story books and novels, had been acted and spread worldwide and never lose its magic.

The girl, who was now a woman, kept her mouth shut, smiled, and welcomed him into her warm, dimly lit room, waiting for another tale to be poured fervently on her in that childish arrogance way of his.

"Welcome back, Peter."

And as usual, he would start a wide grin and reply eagerly, "I've got a new tale for you, Wendy-Lady."

x

Peter Pan had never shown any indications that he was going to forget his promise of visiting her every night, or sometimes every other night; he was always there, his shadow slipping into view, before he pushed at her (always) unlocked window to make his entrance.

She wasn't going to lock the window soon enough, she thought.

She probably wasn't going to...

_...forever_.

**x**

**Authoress' Note:** Again! Ehm... wow. My childhood dream finished in four hours! Oh well, I might as well get jittery for the caffeine had forced my eyes to open throughout the night when I should've been sleeping, but as we all know, muse strikes at the oddest of times :) thanks a lot to anyone who spared their time to read this humble story, and thanks (a lot with kisses and hugs and love) to anyone who not only spared their time to read this story but also drop me a line of review or to. Nevertheless, many thanks to _you_.

Created and finished: 3 November 2005

Last modified: 16 November 2005


End file.
